


A Crown of Ice

by Sinna



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, Spot has ruthless ambition and a dragon, Targaryen!Spot, Wildling!Race
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/pseuds/Sinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wildling and a Crow meet in the snow. Neither one ends up dead.<br/>Spot Conlon is a Targaryen and he will have a crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crown of Ice

I.

Racetrack Higgins still remembers the day he met Spot Conlon.

He was out on his own, on a routine scouting mission, when he saw black in the white snow. Procedure called for a warning to be sounded at the first sight of a Crow, but something kept Race’s hand from the horn on his belt. He crept closer, keeping out of the Crow’s sight.

The Crow boy – for he was only a boy – was unlike anyone Race had ever seen. His head was bare, despite the chill, and it was easy for Race to see his white-blond hair and violet eyes. The snow was knee-deep, and boy was small, yet he strode across the ground like he owned it.

“Identify yourself!” Race called, keeping out of sight behind a rocky outcrop.

The boy looked around. Race had done many stupid things in his life, but this was by far the stupidest.

“My name is Spot Conlon. I’m here to see the King Beyond the Wall.”

“And what does a Crow want with Mance Rayder?” Race asked, sneering.

“I want to join the Free Folk,” Spot said, bending down as if to study the snow.

“So you’re a spy?”

Spot bristled and stood tall.

“I’m not a spy.”

“That’s exactly what a spy would say,” Race pointed out.

“Just take me to Mance Rayder. I have information about Castle Black I’m willing to give him in exchange for a place among the Free Folk.”

“Why?”

The question slipped out almost without Race noticing. He should have called for help by now. He should have killed Spot. But something about the pale-haired Crow intrigued him.

“Because Castle Black is a prison. I was raised there almost all my life. If Commander Snyder had it his way, I’d be there forever. I don’t want that. So I’m going to join the Free Folk, or die trying.”

Race remembered some of the stories Mance had told of Castle Black, when he was too drunk to hold his tongue. Stories of a dreary castle full of cruelty and contempt.

“I’ll take you to Mance,” Race agreed. “But I’m not promising anything.”

Spot smirked.

“That’s all I need.”

And so, Race found himself leading Spot back to their camp. He expected the walk to be silent and uncomfortable, but Spot started complaining about the cold, and before he knew it they were conversing like old friends. Spot shared anecdotes about the rangers who had raised him, and Race found himself sharing tales of his own upbringing. Almost before he realized it, they were approaching the camp. Race stopped, prompting Spot to do the same.

“You can’t just walk in with me.”

“Why not?” Spot asked.

“Because we’ll both end up dead the second we’re within sight of the sentries. You’re a Crow, remember?”

“I’m not a Crow.”

“You look like one.”

Race drew his knife and took a step towards Spot. Spot reacted instantly, throwing him to the ground and wrestling the knife away. Race found himself pinned, his own knife at his throat. Spot’s violet eyes were wide, like a caged animal. For a moment, Race was sure he was going to die. Then, Spot seemed to remember himself. The pressure of the knife at his throat eased slightly.

“You okay?” Race asked.

“Fine,” Spot insisted. “It’s just… a lot of people have tried to kill me. Fighting off assassination attempts is instinct for me.”

“Assassination attempts? You’re what? Fourteen? Who tries to kill a kid?”

“I’m the last Targaryen. I’m a threat to the Baratheon throne. It doesn’t matter how old I am.”

No wonder the kid was so desperate to escape Castle Black.

“Look, you’re going to need to put your instincts on hold for a minute and let me have a knife on you if you want the chance to talk to Mance. And you can’t react if anyone else threatens you, either. Can you do that?”

Spot nodded.

“Of course. You just caught me off guard.”

Race could hear the false bravado in Spot’s voice, but he decided to feign ignorance. Let Spot keep his pride. He pressed the knife again to Spot’s throat, and this time the only reaction was a sudden stillness.

“Walk!” Race hissed.

He let Spot set the pace, a bit slower than he himself would have moved, but not slow enough to be suspicious.

Before they’d gone twenty paces, there was a cry of “Halt!”

If Race hadn’t known that there were sentries in the trees, he would have been surprised. Spot started a little. Within seconds, there were three archers barring their way. Morris Delancey, his brother Oscar, and Ygritte.

“Who’s the Crow, Racetrack?” Oscar asked.

“Says he’s a deserter,” Race explained. “Says he wants to join us.”

“Just shoot him,” Morris snapped. “What good is a traitorous Crow?”

“I have information I’m willing to trade,” Spot spoke up.

“Just go get Rayder,” Race snapped. “At least let him decide what to do with the kid.”

The three conferred for a minute, before Ygritte broke away in disgust.

“I’m going to get Mance. If I come back and he’s dead, all of you will join him in Hell. That includes you, Racetrack.”

It was most likely an empty threat, but she had the skill to carry it out if she desired, and that alone was probably what saved Spot in the tense minutes before she returned, leading the King Beyond the Wall.

Mance Rayder took one look at Spot Conlon and started to laugh.

“A Targaryen? Look how the mighty have fallen. You must be the last of your kind, boy.”

Spot lifted his chin defiantly.

“My name is Spot Conlon. I want to join the Free Folk.”

“How many times did they try to kill you before you decided to run away?”

“I’ve lost count.”

It was a blatant lie, and everyone could see it. Race would be willing to bet that Spot could list the names of every person who had tried to kill him, and probably describe in detail how he had killed them.

“Ygritte said you would tell me anything I wanted to know about the Night’s Watch.”

“I will.”

“Higgins, put the knife away.”

Race felt Spot’s relief as the knife disappeared from his neck.

“How many rangers are there in Castle Black?”

“Three hundred, give or take a few.”

“What are their defenses?”

“Laughable, really. They rely on the wall to save them. If you can get over that, you won’t have much trouble. Half of them are untrained farm boys. Of course, the getting over it is the hard part. They can pour boiling oil, or drop things on you, or even collapse part of the wall. But their supplies are limited.”

Mance turned away.

“Higgins, he’s your responsibility. Find him something to wear that doesn’t stink of Crow.”

And that was that.

II.

For the next two years, things were quiet.

Spot adjusted to life in the North far more quickly than anyone expected. By age sixteen, he was as respected as many men twice or three times his age.

Race learned that there was more to being a Targaryen than people trying to kill you. It meant that you were supposed to be a king. It meant that Spot had grown up knowing that he was better than anyone around him.

Not that you’d ever know that from interacting with him. But sometime Race caught the huff of annoyance when someone asked Spot to help them with something, before Spot turned to them with a smile and assured them that it was no trouble at all. Spot called it politics. Race called it being a filthy liar. Maybe that was why people liked Spot more than they liked him.

Somewhere along the line, he’d become the one person Spot trusted. Or at least, that was what Spot said. Race knew him well enough to doubt that Spot trusted even him completely. But the fact remained that he and Spot were close. To the rest of Mance Rayder’s army, they were mostly perceived as a single unit.

When Spot crept into his bed sometime in the early hours of the morning, Race just rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

“Wake up!” Spot hissed.

“I’m sleeping,” Race groaned.

“I need to show you something!”

By then, Race knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep, but he kept his eyes shut a few more seconds out of spite.

“Race, this is important.”

Race rolled back to face Spot.

“What in the seven hells is more important than my sleep?”

“Get dressed,” Spot ordered. “Dress warm.”

And that was how Race found himself walking out of the camp before dawn, in the middle of a snowstorm, following Spot Conlon. Spot had a dark look in his eyes and a large pack on his back. Race couldn’t explain either.

By Race’s judgement, they were practically going in circles, but one look at Spot’s face told him not to ask. Eventually, their path curved upward to the summit of a small mountain.

“Wait here,” he said suddenly. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”

Race stood still as Spot ventured into what Race could only assume was a hidden cave. Minutes ticked by, and Race waited. Finally, Spot reemerged, smiling now.

“Follow me.”

Race followed him into the cave, which was larger than he would have expected based on the entrance. The light from Spot’s torch only extended a few feet, but Race could feel the enormity of the cave. Spot clicked his tongue, and something began to move in the darkness.

“Spot?”

“Quiet!”

A shadow approached the light. Slowly, a scaly head came into view, followed by the rest of the creature’s body. It approached Race, cautiously twining itself around his legs, mouth open to reveal a row of sharp teeth. It was almost the size of a wolf, with snow-white scales and sharp ridges. When it let out a breath, the air turned to frost.

“Spot, am I seeing things?” Race asked in a hushed whisper. “Dragons are supposed to be extinct.”

“His name is Brooklyn,” Spot replied, as if this was all perfectly normal.

“What is he doing here?”

“I can’t have a dragon in the middle of camp. It would be disruptive. Besides, I like having the element of surprise. It won’t be long before I have enough support to challenge Mance for his throne. I want an ace up my sleeve.”

“This is quite an ace.”

Spot beamed.

“I know. Do you like him?”

Race looked down at the dragon now biting at his cloak. Tendrils of ice extended from each toothmark.

“He’s amazing. Where did you even find him?”

“I’ve had the egg all my life. A last gift from my mother, I suppose, before they killed her. I left it buried in a snowdrift when I saw you. I didn’t want Mance to get it if he killed me. When I came back for it, I found him curled up around a cluster of rabbit bones and bits of eggshell. I’ve been hiding him ever since.”

“Why tell me now?”

“Because it’s getting too hard to hide him from you. I need help feeding him, and training him, and I don’t have enough time of my own.”

Race nodded incredulously.

“Okay. Okay. You have a dragon and you want me to help you hide him.”

“Race, will you do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it, asshole.”

Spot smiled, one of his genuine smiles, and then he did something unexpected. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Race’s mouth.

“Thanks.”

III.

Race woke to the sound of yelling. He grabbed his sword and scrambled outside.

“What’s happening?” he asked the nearest person, who happened to be Ygritte.

“Conlon’s challenged Rayder for leadership!” she told him, her eyes glittering with excitement.

“The idiot could have warned me,” Race muttered.

Ygritte shrugged.

“From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t a planned thing.”

“With Spot, it’s always planned,” Race replied. “I’m gonna kill him for not warning me.”

When they made it to Mance’s tent, there was a crowd gathered in a rough circle. Race pushed his way to the center.

Spot saw him and smiled.

“Race. I was wondering when you’d show up. I need you to fetch my slingshot for me.”

Race groaned.

“You picked a fight with the King Beyond the Wall _unarmed?_ ”

“Race. Just do it. We don’t want to let all these people sit around waiting all day.”

“Do it, Higgins,” Mance spoke up. “I won’t allow an unfair fight.”

Race pushed his way back through the mass of people, muttering obscenities under his breath. One of these days he was going to kill Spot. He hurried back through the camp until he found Spot’s tent. Pushing his way inside, he finally understood Spot’s instructions.

Sitting in a pile of frost-coated blankets, Brooklyn watched him with wary eyes. Race picked up the slingshot and looked at the dragon. Of course Spot had planned this.

“Come on, boy.”

The dragon jumped up and trotted towards him. As they left the tent, Brooklyn looked hopefully up at the sky.

Race smiled.

“Go find Spot.”

Brooklyn took to the air. Race dashed along after him, ignoring the terrified whispers of the people around him.

Race made it back to the group outside Mance’s tent just in time to find them all scattering. He fought his way through the tide. Soon, it was only Mance, Spot, and himself standing there. Brooklyn crouched at Spot’s feet.

Mance laughed.

“The Targaryen has a dragon. Why am I not surprised?”

Spot grinned, all teeth.

“Do you still want to fight? Surrender now and I’ll let you live.”

“To surrender would be as good as losing, Targaryen. You know that. I’ll take my chances with death.”

“So be it.”

With a nod of Spot’s head, Brooklyn was on his feet, teeth bared.

“ _Suvion,_ ” Spot hissed.

A torrent of ice burst from Brooklyn’s mouth, catching Mance’s sword arm. The King Beyond the Wall shook off the coat of frost, but Spot had already taken his slingshot from Race, loaded it, and taken aim. The blow hit Mance in the head, knocking him off balance.

Taking Spot’s blow as a cue, Brooklyn leaped at Mance, his sharp teeth ripping into the King’s throat.

Mance fell heavily and Brooklyn, victorious and bloodstained, looked to Spot, who offered him a nod and a feigned smile. Assured of his parent’s approval, Brooklyn took to the sky, crowing his bloody victory to the clouds.

Spot looked to Race, something painful in his eyes.

“I never taught him to do that.”

IV.

As usual, Spot Conlon was late. Boots remained unimpressed. If the King Beyond the Wall wanted to flaunt his power by showing up late to a pre-arranged meeting, let him. As long as he continued to pay well, Boots could handle a few extra minutes in the freezing cold of the forest outside the wall.

“What do you have for me?”

Again, as usual, Spot’s entrance was abrupt and unexpected. One minute, the forest glade was still, glittering with the newly fallen snow, and the next Spot was striding in his direction. There was a certain fury in his step that made Boot nervous.

“I expect you’ll be wanting to know about Racetrack Higgins,” Boots remarked casually.

The expression that passed over Spot’s face – a mixture of shock, fear, and anger – was a sight to behold, and a suspicion began building in his mind.

“What of him? I’d assume the bastard is dead. The Night’s Watch generally does that to prisoners.”

Boots shook his head.

“He’s going to join the Rangers.”

That stopped Spot in his tracks. Only for a second, but it was enough. Boots knew he was right.

“Good for him,” Spot said, his tone a hair too casual.

“I’m surprised you’re not plotting a rescue.”

“He’s just one man. And if he’s so happy to turn his back on the North, he doesn’t need rescuing.” He paused for a moment. “He is happy, isn’t he?”

The question was strange coming from someone so famous for his ruthlessness, but Boots had long ago realized that Spot Conlon was only human.

“It was his own idea, if that’s what you’re asking. Jack hasn’t officially accepted him yet, but he will. He’ll be okay.”

Spot wiped a nonexistent patch of snow off his sleeve.

“I know that. Race has an annoying talent for befriending people. Anything else to tell me? Preferably something useful.”

But Boots wasn’t quite ready to let the subject go.

“He’s your lover, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“You’re in love with Racetrack Higgins. Don’t try to deny it. I’m not stupid. That’s rather dangerous, isn’t it? Leaving your lover behind enemy walls?”

“What do you want me to do? Stage an ambush? Sneak in and rescue him? I’m not stupid either. He’s safe. That’s all I need to know.”

Boots rested a hand on the dagger at his hip.

“He’s only safe as long as no one knows who he is and what he means to you.”

Spot mirrored the gesture.

“You won’t say a word. Because if you do, you reveal that you’re spying for me.”

“All I’d have to do is spread a rumor,” Boots said with a shrug. “Easy enough to do without compromising my identity.”

Spot glared, but he was smart enough to know when he was beaten.

“How much do you want?”

Boots pretended to consider for a few moments.

“Twenty gold dragons.”

Spot clenched his fist, but nodded.

“Done. But you don’t get the money until our next meeting.”

“Fair enough.”

“Anything else to report?”

Boots shared a few other tidbits about life in Castle Black. When and where Ravens had been sent with what messages, what sections of the walls were being repaired, and the election of Commander Kelly. Spot listened in grim silence, and handed over a bag of coins when Boots was finished.

And then he was gone, as mysteriously as he had come.

Boots trudged back to the gate, knocking out a carefully arranged rhythm. After a few minutes, the gate opened. Boots ducked inside, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimness of the tunnel. Jack Kelly was standing waiting for him.

“Anything of interest from your latest meeting with Spot Conlon?” Jack asked.

Boots grinned.

“You’ll like this one, Jack. That wildling we captured, you remember him? The one who wants to join the Watch? He’s Conlon’s lover.”

Jack’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“Spot’s lover? This could be interesting. Good work, Boots.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Oh, and Boots? Don’t tell anyone else.”

Boots grinned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- If anyone was wondering about ages, Race is 17 in part I, making him 19 in parts II and III, and 21 in part IV. Spot is actually 15 in part I, 17 in parts II and III, and 18 in part IV.  
> \- If you’re wondering where this takes place in relation to the actual Game of Thrones timeline, part I is approximately 3 years before the first book/season. Theoretically. Because, you know, I’m playing fast and loose with GOT canon.  
> \- (speaking of playing fast and loose with canon) Spot himself is not aware of why the egg hatched when it did. The explanation is this: dragon eggs can be birthed by extreme temperatures at either end of the spectrum. All that’s required is a death. For Daenerys, she births her dragons in a funeral pyre, and she gets fire drakes. Brooklyn is born in the extreme cold, when a rabbit burrows into the snow next to the egg and freezes to death, so he’s an ice drake. Theoretically the same species, but very different powers.  
> \- Suvion is High Valyrian for ice.  
> \- If you reread part I, you should be able to catch the point where Spot hides the egg.


End file.
